The Rukongai Games
by A Self-Deprecating Person
Summary: There are twenty-four of us. Only one of us comes out. The rest? Dead. I knew I was going into the arena - my name's been the bowl what? Ninety times? It's so cold out here, like a hawk swooped down and stole all the warmth from us. So cold . . . so dark.
1. Consequences of Rebellion

**A/N: Hey everybody. Looks like the Hunger Games fever has mingled with my _Bleach_ ****obsession and product of the two? This. I would like to say that this fanfic will not follow the plotline of _The Hunger Games_ directly, although there will be some influences. My main goal is to capture fright and suspense of the fighting in the arena with rugged, wary Hiyori - not copy Suzanne Collins' masterpiece and substitute in _Bleach _characters. That's why I'm not really marking this as a crossover. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, guys!**

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Chapter One – Consequences of Rebellion

I try to yank myself free of the Peacekeepers' grips, but the two burly men hold on tight, absolutely ignoring my resistance. The cold touch of metal nips my wrists as they snap on a pair of handcuffs and kick me to the dusty ground. My eyes are watering from my dust allergies.

"Look what we've got here, boss," the taller but skinnier Peacekeeper huffs, brushing his hands off. At least I made him break a sweat. "A little rebel. A kid by the looks of it."

The fatter and squatter Peacekeeper nods in agreement. "Aye, a little rebel out in the woods, stuffin' shit in 'er pockets like a little thief!"

"I ain't stuffin' shit in my pockets, ya dumbasses!" I manage, spewing forth gravel lodged in my teeth during our scuffle. "I was jus –"

The fatass barbarously kicks me in the ass, forcing me back to the ground. "Shaddap! Not another word from you, ya little bitch!"

I find myself staring at a pair of shined shoes. They are made of leather, the sort that must come from our district's livestock ranches, which are shipped to District Eight textile factories. The processed leather then goes to District One, which specializes in luxury items – like designer leather shoes – and finally makes the last meters of its journey to the luscious Seireitei, the center of our nation, which is abound with riches and opulence. Nonetheless, I hate those shoes; jeering and smirking, they seem to be the only thing I can look at when I have to face _him_.

"What do we have here?" _he_ demands. It's that frivolous, hoity-toity Seireitei accent with the over-enunciated vowels and the irritating lifts and sinks of the tone. It's like singing a song – but annoying. The Head Peacekeeper. The big boss whom all these hooligans report to. He is a slicked-back man, tall and imperious, who walks around with sharp ash-blonde hair, clacking down the dusty road in those shiny, mean shoes. He comes from Seireitei – obviously – and claims he only grovels in this "dump-hole of a district" to earn his due. We all hate him.

"It's that kid again," the taller Peacekeeper drawls, jabbing me with his cattle prod. I snarl in response. "She's out stealin' food again and sellin' it off on the black market or somethin'."

The Head lifts my chin from the ground with the tip of his leather shoe. I can smell the production of District One and its envious luxury. Those guys like him, the Seireitei inhabitants, live the dream life, overindulging in heavenly pastries like apple strudel and blueberry pies, sitting around watching television drama all day, and strolling the streets, completely bored out of their minds. And us? The humble people of District Ten? Stuck in the hot, sweltering fields, tending to the cows that feed those uppity little pimps in One.

The shoe shakes me off in disgust. My head bonks back onto the dirty floor, and I cough up dust.

"Repulsive," the Head sniffs in his bumptious Seireitei accent. "Simply repulsive." He circles me like vulture, his hands stationed smartly behind his back, his neck hunched forward in scrutiny. His voice is a scratchy rasp, "Now what was this little scrap stealing?"

I don't answer. By doing so, I'd only get myself about twenty lashes – but by not doing so, I get kicked in the nose. So I dig out a squished and crumpled blackberries.

"Remind me again?" the Head inquires in false innocence. "What is her name again?"

"Sarugaki Hi –" the fatass begins, but the Head Peacekeeper shakes his towhead, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

"No, no, no. Allow her to answer for herself." He kicks me, as I had anticipated, in the nose. There's a sickening crack; I try not to cry out in pain, so I chomp down on my lower lip. As a result, I taste the metallic flavor of fresh, scarlet blood flooding my mouth like a river

He kicks me again. "Well? What is it, you ingrate? Your name?"

"S-Sarugaki . . . Hiyori," I cough.

"Ah, Hiyori again!" the Head exclaims, horribly feigning surprise. "It seems we have you here – _once again_. Now on what terms? Thievery, did I hear? Now that is punishable by incarceration, girl, or worse: death."

"Do. Not. Talk. To. Me. Like. That." I grit out through my bloodied mouth.

The two dumbass Peacekeepers looming over me suck in their breaths. The birds in the distance seem to have ceased their singing. A humid wind drifts between the Head and me, dancing idyllically until abruptly collapsing into an unceremonious heap.

"Excuse me?" the Head says, his voice dangerously low. "Could you repeat yourself, ingrate?"

"I ain't a kid," I respond, equally low. "Quit talkin' to me like I'ma fuckin' five-year old."

"_Excuse me?_" The Head swings his leg back and surges it back forward with full force, coming into contact with my collarbone with a destructive impact. I scream in pain. A burning agony rips throughout my upper torso like a wildfire, spreading through my arms and to the small of my back.

_Don't cry. Don't you dare cry, Sarugaki Hiyori_, I goad myself mentally. _Don't show them that you're a fucking weakling because you sure as hell are not!_

I blink away several tears before clenching my teeth together and diverting my mind from its dead focus on the excruciating pain. I think about my friends back home, sitting anxiously at the dinner table, trying to shovel our meager rations as quickly as they can into their mouths, distressed about getting dressed for the Reaping this evening.

Shit. The Reaping. How could I have almost forgotten about that? The pain in my shoulder seems to disappear because a much greater peril has kicked it out of its place.

Every year, two tributes – one male and one female – between the ages of twelve and eighteen are chosen from each district by lottery to compete in a competition called, the Rukongai Games. They are brought together in an enormous, ever-changing arena where they are forced to kill each other on live television until there is one remaining victor. That victor brings riches and a year's worth of rations like oil and sugar to his or her district and gets the opportunity to live the high life in the prestigious victors' mansions located in the richest part of their district, a place I can only dream of. It's sickening, but I always watch the Games – every year since I was eight – in the case that the odds are not in my favor.

And the ceremonial event in which the tributes are chosen is known as, the Reaping – which is tonight at seven sharp. We are supposed to dress in our Sunday best, looking all punctual and tidy, hoping to form a good impression on TV. After all, the other tributes watch your Reaping; if you look like a wuss, you're first to go.

But me? Bruised, battered, and bloodied. The complete opposite of a punctual and tidy female tribute. Judging by the position of the waning sun on the horizon, I'd say it's about 6:30. Thirty minutes to brush myself up and hightail to the Central Square.

The Head seems to have read my mind. "If I recall, we seem to have a special event this evening. The Reaping, is it?"

I don't answer. He kicks me again. I grit my teeth and nod yes.

"I really could put you on execution for stealing the district's fruit," the Head muses. "But, with the Reaping coming up, I have a better idea. How many times are you in that jar, Sarugaki?"

Before his leather shoe can injure me anymore, I blurt out, "Eighty-four."

"Eighty-four, is it? That's rather high, child. And you are . . . only twelve? Thirteen? You're name should only be in there once or twice, if I am correct?"

"Yes," I say. "You are correct."

"Are you _that_dependent on tesserae, child?" the Head sneers. "For what? The last plague already wiped out whatever family you've had left."

Normally, children of larger families sign up for the tesserae program, in which the district distributes portions of grain and oil in exchange of a potential tribute having his or her name drawn into the bowl a couple of more times. Being the Tenth, we are a poor district, barely hanging onto the stench of our livestock industry, toiling on the ranches and stockyards, leading the idle cattle and buffalo to their very deaths, day after day. About half of us potential tributes are grudgingly enlisted in the program.

I am an orphan, though. I was abandoned at birth with my uncle. He was a thin, sickly man, very contrasting in comparison to the brawny ranchers of our district. But all in all, he was a good-natured man and where he lacked strength, he excelled in wisdom. He was knowledgeable of the entire terrain of the Tenth District, of both the lush forests of its backwoods and the rolling, grassy prairies of the land where the cattle roam. In charge of rounding up strays or runaways, my uncle would often take me into the uninhabited woods and while keeping a lookout for a feisty heifer, distinguish the different types of mushrooms and herbs of the deciduous ecosystem. And when we returned back to the village, we would cross the golden plains and my uncle would identify each species of hawk and which type of prairie grass needed the least water in order to thrive.

My uncle possessed the skills of a high-class genetic engineer who works in a clean, air-conditioned lab and lives in a nice suburb home, but his social status and he alth deficiencies set him on the base of pyramid as a lesser round-up captain. No one had any respect to the rickety, stick-thin man due to his perpetual cough.

But last year, a rampant pandemic of some kind flu blazed through our district coming from our neighbor, District Eleven, and infected the mass majority of our people. Seireitei decided not to distribute its much-needed antibiotic, claiming it needed it for its own citizens. The flu killed off a third of its victims, and my uncle was unfortunately in that boat.

I was left me without any family. I was alone; I didn't have anyone.

My uncle's last gift to me was knife he had saved from a lumbering expedition years before I was born. It was the cleanest-cutting knife I have ever seen with a sturdy steel blade that shone brightly under the sun. Its hand-carved handle fit perfectly in my hand, as if it were custom-made for me. He made me promise to always keep this hidden and never to let the authorities find it.

I kept that promise until half a year ago. I was walking back from work, covered in sweat and the stinking of the fetid smell of cattle shit. I lived in a small "orphanage" house, a dilapidated farm house with paint peeling off its walls and windows broken clean off their frames, with my friends, Shinji and Lisa. We met each other by fate, found we all had similarities, and thereupon, we stuck together like three peas in a pod. Anyway, I was about to turn into the Central Square when a dark throng accosted me, armed with clubs and horsewhips.

"Kid," their leader, muscular, bald man grunted, shoving me roughly into a wall. I recoiled at the sight of his sheer imperiousness. He squinted at me. "Give us the blade, kid."

_The blade?_ How could he have known? I had not once shown it to anyone, not even Shinji or Lisa. I kept it sheathed in my boot, where it fit perfectly, and I've never had to withdraw it.

Then the truth hit me like a lightning bolt. Yesterday at work.

A bull was stuck to some kind of rope snare and was desperately screaming for mercy. I had left the herd to Lisa and full out sprinted to the scene. There seemed to be no way to free the bull with my bare hands with the danger of the animal thrashing out at me, for one. Plus, the knot was downright preposterous. It wasn't anything I have every seen before; maybe it was a special District Four fishing knot one of us picked up somehow.

I had then remembered my knife, hidden in my boot, sleeping like a hibernating bear. I was reluctant to take it out, the words of my uncle reverberating through my head like a premonition of doom, but I couldn't just leave this bull here. The Head Peacekeeper would flay Lisa and me alive. I hastily scanned the terrain, and once I was confident enough, I whipped out my knife and sliced the bull free from the snare.

There was no way someone could have seen me.

"The blade?" I squeaked as the man stepped forward menacingly. "W-what blade?"

"Don't give me that shit. You know exactly what I mean. That handcrafted teak-titanium dagger. Ain't just an ordinary steel knife, girlie. Smuggled from District Two's armories by our most elite forces. How did you get a hold on it?"

Teak? Titanium? These were first-rate materials we could only dream of. I trembled, not answering the bald man's question.

"Hold up, Madarame," another man whispered, messy ash-blonde hair and eyes hidden under shadow of his dark hood. "Look at who you are speaking to."

The two men shifted their gazes onto me. I cringed.

"Is this . . . the Sarugaki girl?" the bald man inquired.

"Hell yeah, I am!" I spat but cowered again when the bald man prodded me with his club.

The hooded man stepped forward. "Why don't we make you a deal? Since your uncle stole that knife from us, you can pay it back for him."

"He stole – what?"

"Never mind the details. Just sign up for two round of tesserae each month, give us the rations, and you get to keep the knife. Deal?"

As a result, I am forced to have my name put into the bowl seven extra times each month. And during each month, I find that ash-blonde man in the alleyways, waiting for his barrels of grain and oil. He tries to be friendly and converse with me, but once I do my job, I get out of there as fast as I can.

The Head Peacekeeper often questions why I need so much tesserae – this is the one question I will never answer. Besides, he wouldn't care. I'm sure he's more than happy to see me marching off to the Rukongai Games and getting killed by some steroid-pumped Career or a pack of muttations.

The Head kicks me one last time. I wheeze out blood nearby his designer shoes, coughing and choking on the metallic-tasting fluid. Wincing in disgust, he backs off. "That is revolting, as I said before. Leave now. You will receive your punishment tonight, girl, during the ceremony. Be grateful that I have spared you from execution – execution in the Central Square in front of your so-called _friends_. Now get cleaned up and prepare for the Reaping."

I drag myself to my feet and escape from the guffawing Peacekeepers, almost on the brink of tears. There _is_ no time to get ready – the Reaping starts in ten goddamned minutes! I pelt into the "orphanage," running right into Shinji who is dressed in his nicest shirt and slacks.

"Whoa there, dumbass! Watch where yer go—" He pauses midsentence as I wrench out our homemade shampoo from the cupboard and a fairly clean towel from the drawers. Before I can storm outside and swiftly scrub myself clean in the pond, he puts a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, you look like shit. What happened?"

Lisa enters from the bedroom with her hair tied into a single braid down her back. She is dressed in the navy dress she had snitched from an unsuspecting Seireitei tourist; she made sure she picked the most modest-looking one, so the authorities wouldn't suspect anything too strange, but it was still elegant all the same.

"Hey." She nods to me. "No time to get washed up. Just throw on a dress and let's go."

I lob the shampoo bottle in frustration at Shinji who nimbly dodges. I can't believe myself. I look, like Shinji stated, a piece of shit. Dirt in my tangled, rat's nest hair. Bruises on my shoulder and face. Scratches, welts, and cuts. A healing black eye. Totally not a good image for a television program broadcasted across Rukongai.

"Watch it!" Shinji picks up the shampoo and sets it back into place in the cupboard. "This shit's expensive to make, so be careful! Now we better hurry before the Peacekeepers raid our house and shoot us down!"

Resentfully, I stalk into the bedroom and pull on a clean white dress, nothing too fancy unlike Lisa's Seireitei dress. I try comb out the knots in my hair with my fingers, but it's all in vain, so I slap my blonde mess into two decent pigtails. I head back into the kitchen, where Lisa checks Shinji's tie, and together, we set out for the Central Square.

I just can't shrug off the thought of the Head's punishment for me tonight.

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**A/N: How did you guys like it? Feel free to leave a comment or some constructive criticism. That would make my day. Thanks so much!**


	2. The Reaping

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait, guys! I'm back on track, and you'll be sure to see more updates this summer! Enjoy!**

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Chapter Two – The Reaping

Despite how Shinji's joking around and Lisa's making perverted remarks, we're all burdened by the weight of anxiety. Sometimes, I don't understand why the two try to pretend as if the Games are nonexistent and wave it off as if it's some extraterrestrial bullshit. Do they care if they are in that forsaken bowl more than thirty times each?

Shinji's got a small family to feed – his coop of aunts, a curious trio of mentally handicapped women all obsessed with bird watching. When his father passed away from a devastating stampeding accident, the same accident that lost Lisa her own parents, he left a note to Shinji in his will to help support his incapable aunts. His father loved his sisters no matter how frustrating they could be at times. He would always, according to Shinji, visit them and play games with them; they were especially enthralled with simple tournaments of "rock-paper-scissors."

And now Shinji? Every week, he cheerfully prances across the town to his aunts' little shack, dragging his crates of redeemed grain and oil from signing up for the tesserae program. He doesn't seem burdened in the least by it. His father's legacy seems more important to him than his own safety.

Lisa, on the other hand, dedicates herself to helping Shinji out. In her own reserved way, she admires him for doing what he does. I can somehow see it on her expressionless face whenever Shinji exits the Orphanage shack hefting those rations over his lanky shoulders. It's quiet awe. She graciously signed herself up for the same program, risking her odds each year to help make the aunts' lives just a little better. You'd never expect such a moper to do that, but well all know very much how weird Lisa is.

And me? I've got that knife to pay off for in addition to helping the three of us survive on the meager lunches we receive from working on the prairies. Since Shinji and Lisa are so preoccupied supporting Shinji's aunts, someone has to feed the three of us, and that someone happens to be me. Honestly, it doesn't make a difference for me to throw in some extra rounds of tesserae; I already have my name in that bowl so many times. It's as if I know I'm destined to go to the Games sooner or later. Sadly, I accept that fate.

However, I've got to say, being thirteen and all, I've only been in a Reaping once. Last year, I had my name in about sixty times altogether, and I was sure that I was going to be drawn. I remembered those kids from my school looking at me with a pity in their eyes, looking away in sorrow. They seemed like they wanted to comfort me, but they knew it was fruitless. I was inevitably going to be picked as the female tribute.

I would be a liar to say that I wasn't scared. Hell, I was scared out of my mind. This knife I kept was going to kill me, yet I still insistently held onto it. Why? I have no idea. This strange affinity tied us together, me and this knife, with an indestructible wire, stronger than steel. No matter how much I tugged and resisted, we always snapped back together in the end. And I can't forget that it's my uncle's legacy to me.

As it turns out, the daughter of a wealthier family, an uppity blonde chick who only had her name in there about three times, was chosen. She was one of the people who looked down on me, basking in the light of her fortune of not having to toil in the fields. Here in Ten, we're separated by two statuses: working class and business class. The workers are Shinji, Lisa, and I and all of the others out in on the prairies. We do the shoddy work with the longhorns. The business class, primps as we call them, reside near the Central Square in three-story buildings, managing the imports and exports of the District. They're not exactly what one would call _rich_ – just more fortunate. They don't have mansions and expensive hovercraft, but having the privilege of living in a clean little house or apartment with running water and electricity? It seriously beats the Orphanage that threatens to collapse whenever a storm whirls by.

Anyway, this blonde chick was picked for the Reaping, and the second she stepped up on the stage, our eyes locked. I could see the shivering terror in her irises from where I stood. We didn't even hear the name of the male tribute; we were just staring at each other in silence. I finally got the will to nod, to encourage her. I watched her take a deep breath and focus her attention to the instructions of the escort, a busty strawberry blonde who always seemed far too happy for the event, year after year.

The girl was killed in the Bloodbath by a berserk Career and his lance.

"Hiyori!" Lisa's voice rolls me back into reality. We are about two minutes away from reaching the Central Square, which shines brightly in the sunset like an evening star.

"What," I say bluntly, stopping in my tracks. "If it's to say my dress is dirty, I don't give a flyin' fuck. Ya'll know I hate dresses."

"No, it's not that," Shinji says, stepping in. He exchanges a glance with Lisa who nods. He redirects his attention to me. "Promise me that you'll listen."

"Make it quick," I snap.

Shinji takes a deep breath and straightens his dusty brown tie. He bends down on one knee so that his face is level with in height, much to my irritation. "We haven't really talked too much 'bout this, but there's somethin' that we've got t'get straight."

"What."

"Well, it seems like all three o' us have a great chance of bein' picked fer this bullshit, so if the odds put me and one o' you two in the Games, remember this: I go." Shinji lowers his eyes.

"Wait!" I sputter. "The hell does that mean? You go?"

"What I mean is," Shinji says, with a grim expression, "If you an' me are in a situation where we have to kill each other, I'm the one who goes. Ya'll just kill me."

"No way!" I shout. I smack him across the face; he takes it wordlessly. The three of us are silent for the next few seconds, me breathing heavily, Shinji wincing through the pain of the slap, Lisa standing passively. Quieter, I repeat myself, "No way."

"Maybe it ain't the time to talk 'bout this," Lisa suggests diplomatically. "Let's see how this goes, an' then we'll go on from there."

"Yeah," Shinji agrees. "We better hurry 'cause the Reaping's gonna start any time now."

We hurry to the Central Square, trying to push the thoughts of the Game out of our minds, but it's fruitless in the end.

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It always blew my mind how year after year, Matsumoto Rangiku, our district's escort, can be so…_bubbly_ about all of this. This year, she prances around the stage—as usual—ranting about how the Games started and how "ever-so fortunate" we are to be spared from utter devastation via Seireitei and constantly tugging down the neckline of her blouse, teasing those drooling Seireitei bachelors watching us on their televisions, as if our district were some kind of sick sit-com.

"And so," she squeals, throwing back her head, enlarged about four times its actual size thanks to her overdone curls. "We've come to the very moment tonight, in which we select our candidates!"

"_Candidates?_" Shinji whispers. "The hell? What happened to callin' us plain, ol' _tributes_?"

"Dunno," Lisa responds, adjusting her glasses. "'Member the time when she called us _victims_ by accident?" Shinji snickers a little too loudly, granting us irritably glares from several guys from school.

I'm still fuming about what Shinji said earlier this evening. Self-sacrifice was never agreed when we decided to live together and support each other. We're a team. There's no fucking way we're going to turn on each other, is there? But now as I think, I remember that year when two siblings happened to be chosen from District Six. You'd think that they'd form some kind of mutual alliance, but in reality, the brother beheaded his sister in the first fifteen minutes of the Game. This sick event seriously fucks up our morals and beliefs.

"And now," Rangiku announces. The screen behind her switches from her flawless face to a clear shot of the two crystal bowls on the table before her. "We must choose our tributes!"

The Central Square is dead silent, minus the white noise from Rangiku's microphone. My heart throws itself against the walls of my chest, and a migraine begins to eat away at my brain. In moments like these, I just want to let life slip out of my fingers, drift away from my lifeline, and escape the torture of anticipation. _Eighty-four times,_ I think to myself. _Eighty-four, you're practically screwed_.

I bet Rangiku's heels, smothered in glitter and satin, can be heard clacking all the way back at the Orphanage. _Clip, clop. Clip, clop_. Kind of like the hooves of longhorns. She clops to a stop, posing seductively before the two goddamned bowls, biting her lower lip and tapping her chin with a manicured nail. Several cameras flash.

"Ladies, first!" she proclaims.

I turn to Shinji. His fists are clenched white at his side, and his eyes are squeezed shut. I can see him thinking about his three aunts, hysterical and sobbing. I face Lisa. I've never seen so much fear and anxiety swimming in her otherwise passive eyes as she stares dead-locked on a pebble on the ground. I want to think, _Why're you guys so nervous? At least your fate ain't fuckin' inevitable like mine is_._ Eighty-four slips_. But I can't bring myself to think like that.

"Always see the glass half-full," my uncle always told me. "That way, there's always gonna be a light at the end o' the tunnel."

"That doesn't make any sense," I always responded. "Two cheesy statements thrown into one? Gimme a break, Uncle!"

Whatever the hell he meant by that. I start counting to myself, a habit I've had since I was five. I count the seconds it takes for Rangiku's hand to finish its pre-drawing exercises, a ritual she'd insisted on for ten straight years. I count the seconds it takes for her to heave a patronizing sigh into the microphone before she offers us a smile of false hope. She's used to seeing kids go off to their deaths, so it's the least she can do. I count the seconds it takes for her to reach her hand into the girls' bowl and meander through the piles of white slips, digging through the paper, swirling her fingertips around the rim.

And then I lose it.

"For god's sake, woman!" I scream, jumping up. "Pick up a damned piece of paper already!" Just as these words tumble out of my mouth, I'm cursing myself for being such a jackass.

Rangiku jumps, almost stumbling on her ridiculous heels. "Ah, what's this?"

"Hiyori, what the hell!" Shinji hisses, nudging me hard.

I can feel every person in District 10 land their eyes on me, and voices begin to flood the Square. Fellow teenagers whirl around, shooting me looks mixed with fear, anger, and sympathy. Adults, standing on the sidelines, murmur to one another. Children too young to enter the Games stretch up on their toes to see what the commotion's about. Instantly, heat billows into my cheeks; I mentally kick myself to relax. What's done is done, right? But my heart just about feels ready to explode from all this tension.

"Hiyori, that was caught on fuckin' video!" Shinji whispers furiously. "You've just—"

"I know!" I spit, stomping on his foot. Shut up, Shinji. Just shut the hell up.

A sharp, earsplitting whistle screeches across the Square, and the noise drops back to dead silence. I see impeccably shined shoes—the Head Peacekeeper. _You will receive your punishment tonight, girl, during the ceremony_. The Head marches over to Rangiku and whispers something into her ear. He hands her six unmistakable slips of paper—names. The entire square sucks in a breath. The Head's always been keen on making punishments public, even organizing death trials right here in the square for all eyes to see.

I must be a complete idiot because it then hits me smack in the face: my name is on those slips. I've gone numb. I can't hear anything. Not Shinji's raged outburst or Lisa's gasp or the Head's quiet chuckle. My eyes are fixed on Rangiku's hand, tossing the additional six slips into the girls' bowl. Despite the blatant gravity of the situation, she restarts her mixing routine, swirling the sea of papers like it's a thick chowder, but luckily, I can't hear her cliché remarks. The head steps off the stage, however, before he disappears, we lock gazes. He grins. He mouths, _Ninety, bitch_.

"Our female tribute is…Sarugaki Hiyori!"

Like that's a surprise.

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**A/N: How'd you like it? Feel free to leave some feedback in that little box below! Thanks!**


	3. Shiver

**A/N: Yay! New chapter's out! Hope you all enjoy!**

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Chapter Three – Shiver

_This is okay,_ I think to myself as everything goes deaf. Shinji's yelling something at me, shaking me by the shoulders. Around us, I see mouths moving, feet shuffling, and Rangiku's manicured fingers beckoning me to come forward. _This is okay_. _I was supposed to do this, anyway_.

My feet seem to have gotten a mind of their own; I'm floating towards that stage, and the girls who were lucky not to have been chosen turn away, as if trying to spare me from further embarrassment. But I don't care. I knew I was going to do this.

"Hiyori." My hearing rushes back into my ears. A slender hand grips my arm tightly, and I whip around. It's Lisa. "Why didja keep that goddamned knife?"

It feels more than an accusation that a question. I gape at her. "How did y—"

"It's obvious. Eighty-four plus that additional six. Ninety times. I know where you've been going with all those additional rations. Plus, the blade slightly sticks out in your sock. I'm not stupid."

Rangiku calls my name again. The people milling around us whisper in warning, but I'm planted to my spot. "Why didn't ya stop me?" I reply, my voice wavering. "If ya knew all along, why didn't ya come outta your stupid shell and say it t'my _face_?"

Before Lisa can answer, a Peacekeeper yanks me out of her grasp, corralling me through the parting crowd. I kick at his shins, spewing out the most venomous words I can think of, but he jabs me with his nightstick, wordlessly instating his authority. He pushes me onto the platform, and I stumble before Matsumoto Rangiku. She gives me a warm smile, welcoming as the female tribute and instructing me to stand beside her, but underneath those layers and layers of foundation and blush, I can tell that she hates me already for publicly embarrassing her. These Seireitei folks have statuses that they need to uphold, and I almost made hers tumble down to its roots.

"And now, for our male tribute!" Rangiku clacks forward to the other bowl, and without bothering to go through her finger dance ritual, she reaches for a slip right on top of the pile.

Trauma grips me like vines, and the only thing I'm focused on his Shinji and Lisa. They stare at me from the crowd, their gazes burning lasers into my skin. Shinji's eyes read, _Why, dumbass? Why did ya do that?_ Lisa only accuses me, casting me a sympathetic but shameful look. I watch her lean over, cupping her hand of Shinji's ear, and in a matter of seconds, her lips write out my secret.

_Knife?_ Shinji mouths. His eyes shoot wide open. His shoulders shake uncontrollably. _Knife?_

_I'm sorry,_ I mouth back, wincing as he stares back blankly. _I didn't mean t—_

"Our male tribute is…" Rangiku snaps open the folded slip of paper. My eyes don't leave Shinji's; we're locked onto each other, a million conversations, arguments, and apologies exchanged between us in just a single glance. Rangiku takes a deep breath. "Yasutora Sado!"

Just as Shinji, Lisa, and I heave sighs of relief, cries of outrage ring across the square. The crowd parts nearby the east side, providing a clear path for an enormous boy with a mess of dark wavy hair hanging over his eyes. The people around him—obviously friends—wail, clinging to his nut-brown brawn, begging for him to stay, but this Sado gently pushes them aside, whispering reassuring words, and makes his way up to the stage. When he stands beside me, a chill runs up my spine at the sight of those gigantic, sinewy arms that may possibly twist my head right off, given the right moment.

"Let's have it, citizens of the Tenth District! Our Twenty-Sixth Annual Rukongai Games tributes, Sarugaki Hiyori and Yasutora Sado!" Rangiku applauds into her microphone. "Come on, everyone! Let's give these two our support!"

The audience ogles bleakly at us, no one making a single sound. I suck in a breath. Does this mean our district doesn't want to support us? Was because of what I did? I glance up at Sado, but instinct nearly knocks me over, and I shrivel away, my entire body convulsing in fear. This guy's got a horrible fear complex within him that radiates out like a dark, ominous flame, as if he's composing my death even as we stand. But what about those people who hung onto him? They seemed like close acquaintances of this Sado, perhaps neighbors and co-workers on the ranch, and that makes him look a little less intimidating. But then it hits me. Those aren't friends at all. Sado is a leader of a street gang; those people are his fawning subordinates.

Gangs work a bit differently here in the Tenth District than they do anywhere else. Unlike those mob bosses who rule based on fear and power in other districts, the leaders of gangs here tend to be more affable and form tight comradeships with their underlings. They're the kind of people who'll get to know your family well, ask how your wife is doing, how the kids are growing, and maybe even organize a special event like a potluck supper (that is, if they have the resources and money). That way, their subordinates will feel a better sense of faith within the group and have a less chance of prying away. However, with that only exception, these gangs are no different than the throngs everywhere else.

"They terrorize the lower-class," Shinji groaned one day, walking in a bruised lip and black eye. "They're fuckin' bastards who'll do anythin' fer the money." A small group of ruffians had snatched off his daily pay along with his hat, leaving him coming home empty handed.

I've never really understood how these gang leaders, acting all family man on the outside, have that inner villainous side deep inside their hearts, the rotten core of the otherwise fresh apple.

"It's to look good for the Peacekeepers," Shinji snorted. "Those official hoity-toity bastards don't give a flyin' fuck 'bout what we do, so if those leaders behave, they'll look the other way."

Sado's eyes lock onto mine, and a dreadful feeling rushes through my entire body. _I am going to die_. My mind is stuck on revolving around that one horrible thought, and I have to give it my all to tear away from his unrelenting gaze.

Fortunately, I hear one pair of hands clapping out there, slowly. Not a happy, encouraging applause, but a steady rhythm of dusky mourning. Lisa joins Shinji's claps, unsmilingly, and soon, the entire square is joining in the depressing clapping, booming like a bass drum heralding inevitable death.

* * *

"We have an hour before the train departs to Seireitei!" Rangiku announces, ushering Sado and me into the town hall. "You really need nothing to bring, due to the fact that we're providing you with everything you need: food, clothing, entertainment. You name it, we've got it!"

Sado and I don't answer. We sit facing away from one another in our chairs. I will not look at the monster of a guy, as long as I'm intending on living through this. I've got a feeling that this gangster's planning on scaring the shit out of me way before the games start, so he can gain the upper hand and finish me in the arena in a matter of seconds. Really, it's a classic tactic often used by the Careers, so I'm not surprised that he's using his gargantuan appearance to his advantage. Shinji always says, with these games, you need to take whatever you have at your disposal and turn into something useful. What do I have at my disposal? Nothing?

"Well, you have this hour to say any last words to friends and family, so I'd make the most out of it!" Rangiku chirps, dancing away on her heels. She shoots me an uneasy glance and slips out the door.

Two Peacekeepers lead me into a separate room from Sado. It looks like the mayor's library with shelves stacked with volumes and titles lining the walls and the cherry desk sitting nearby the window. We never really get many luxuries out on the ranch like oak bookshelves and cherry desks being working-class and all, so we've learned to really resent these business-class primps with a real passion. I dig my fingernails into the rug, hoping to rip off some of the soft fabric and let the world know how screwed-up this is.

Why do we have to suffer from these horrible games, year-after-year? Every year, I've watched so many scared kids being marched into that unpredictable arena and killed without a moment's notice. A spear through a throat. An alligator bursting from a swamp. A wildfire ripping across the trees. It's cruel and inhumane—don't those Seireitei bastards get that? It goes against the principles of society, doesn't it? Whatever that means. Seems like society's gone down the drain before I was even born.

The doors open, and Shinji and Lisa burst in, firing off questions one after another.

"Are ya alright?"

"Why the hell did ya do that?"

"The knife!"

"Did everything go OK?"

"What the hell were those extra slips?"

"Are ya hurt?"

"Goddamnit! Stop it!" I shout, covering my ears. "I can't take this shit anymore!"

My friends stop, both in mid-sentence. Shinji sighs. "Sorry, Hiyori. We're just a bit worked up, that's all."

"Yeah," Lisa murmurs, bowing her head.

"No," I choke, rising from my spot on the carpet. "I just wanna say that I'm sorry. Let's just get this damn apology over with, so we can all watch me die."

"You are _not_ gonna die," Shinji asserts, clenching his hand into a fist. "Listen t'me, Hiyori, yer gonna do yer best ta' survive in that hellhole, no matter how shitty the conditions are."

"That's what they all say, dumbass," I mumble, turning away. "I'm up against twenty-three other hooligans who have the same exact idea in their heads."

"Don't say that!" Shinji's voice strikes through me like a sword. "I think you've got a chance, Hiyori! If the arena has a grassland-ish area, ya needa get there lickety-split! That's our home turf! If not, get to a fuckin' forest, for goodness sake, since we're also familiar with those backwoods! Just don't sit on yer ass for the first day—you need to run as fast as you possibly can!"

"Shinji," I sigh, wearily lifting my head. "I'll promise ya this: I'll do all in my power t'get outta there in one piece—"

"One piece doesn't matter! As long as yer livin' an' breathin'—"

"I get it!" I snap. "I get it! Just come out alive! I get it already! But Shinji, don'tcha realize how much shit I put myself in? Swearin' at our escort on TV? Rangiku pretty much hates my guts, and those Careers'll be after me like fuckin' dogs!" Shinji falters, biting down on his lip. "Face it. It's gonna especially suckish fer me out there. Sado, Rangiku, Careers. No one's on my side." My voice cracks on the last word, and tears threaten to squeeze themselves out of the corner of my eyes. _No_. _I can't cry over this_. I force myself to steel up, stand tall, but it all comes crashing down. I break into ragged sobs.

In an instant, Lisa wraps her arms around me, shushing me in a low voice. "It's alright. Quiet now, it's gonna be alright."

I shove myself away from her. "No!" I scream. "It's not alright! I put myself into this fuckin' mess, and I have ta' drag myself out now!"

Through my tear-blurred vision, I watch her exchange a glance with Shinji. She takes my hand and pulls me close. "Hiyori. Before ya go, let me hold onto that knife."

"Wh-what?" I sniff, rubbing the moisture from my face.

Lisa fixes me a serious look. "I'm not kiddin', Hiyori. That knife is gonna get ya into a lotta trouble once yer on the train, just as it did t'day. I think it's a good idea if ya let me hold onto this while yer gone." She talks as if I'm actually coming home. I reach down into my sock and touch the wooden handle of my blade. The sleek metal slides against my ankle as I pull the knife out and carefully set it into Lisa's hand.

"Wow," Shinji breathes. "That's one hell of a knife. So _that's _how ya save yourself from gettin' hurt by those gangs. Damn."

"Ya knew I was gettin'—" I begin, but Shinji cuts me off.

"Hiyori," he says, stepping forward and kneeling down to my height. His brow wrinkles in deep thought. "Knowin' you've had this knife fer a while 'cause Lisa told me all 'bout it, can ya fight wi' this thing?" He picks up the gleaming blade from Lisa's hand, inspecting it through squinted eyes.

"W-well," I stammer, racking my brain for the right words. "I can get away from a group of ruffians without gettin' _too_ hurt, I guess."

"That's great!" Shinji responds instantly.

"Two minutes," the Peacekeepers grunt from behind the door.

"All right," Shinji calls back, gritting his teeth. He redirects his attention on me. "Remember what I said a while back? Take whatever ya got and use it? Turn it into somethin' useful? Even if yer not that sure of it, _use_ whatever skill ya've got wi' the knife, dammit! I bet that much'll save ya from gettin' killed!"

Lisa nods.

"I'll try," I answer, my eyes not wavering from my uncle's knife. Was he actually trying to protect me by giving me this blade? Was he trying to instill some kind of form of defense in me? I never really got why he'd make me do all that extra tesserae just for this stinking blade, but now, I'm kind of glad. A hint of a smile stretches across my mouth.

The door swings open, and the Peacekeepers gesture for my two friends to exit. Shinji grimaces. "Geez, ya don't have ta' be so pushy!" He shoots me a grin. "An' as fer havin' no one yer side, Hiyori? Remember: you've got two people rootin' fer ya back home. Don'tcha forget that!"

* * *

The train is the most luxurious place that I've ever set my feet upon. Shining marble tiles map the entire floor of the train, accompanied by sleek, modern Seireitei furniture. They must've put some kind of incense in this car because a sweet, lingering smell constantly pokes at my nose, as if teasing me to sneeze.

"Welcome aboard!" Rangiku twitters, tapping her fingers together. "Feel free to get accustomed to your rooms, and there will be a banquet in the dining car in thirty mintues! Oh!" Her eyes widen. "I almost forgot! We need to introduce you to your mentor!"

"What about a mentor?" a gravelly, jagged voice echoes from the hall. A man taller than Sado with long, stringy black hair hanging down his neck pitches himself around the corner. Instantly, I step back. The hairs on the back of my neck shoot straight up, and I narrow my eyes in concentration.

Everything about this man is ten times scarier than Sado. Scars riddle his long face like railroad tracks, and a prominent scratch runs down the left side of his face, past his eye. Over his other eye, sits a stationary black eyepatch. His mouth is twisted in a wild grin, revealing a snaggy line of gnashing teeth.

Before I can react, the man's wild expression zooms onto my face. "Zaraki Kenpachi," he says, forcing out a deep, throaty chuckle. He extends a sinewy arm outwards. "Nice to meet ya."

* * *

**A/N: Well, how'd you all like it? It seems like I'm back on track with updating this fic, so there's more to come! Please leave a review and tell me what you think! Words can't describe how much that helps me as writer! See ya at the next chapter!**


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